I was eleven when the burn started to feel like home— not the fire, but the numb that followed. The breathtaking silence of my brain slowly shutting down. It wasn’t rebellion, not really. It was just to quiet the noise. I loved the way the world blurred just enough for me to forget that I was supposed to be someone. Everyone said I had time. To grow. To figure it out. To mess up. But no one told me what to do when the nights came and I couldn’t breathe without being swallowed by liquid fire. I laughed louder with liquor in my stomach, became someone else— braver, happier, funnier, lighter. Like pain couldn’t catch me if I stayed moving. Like each drink was a one step closer to happiness. I hid it in water bottles, beneath breath mints and gum, beneath the shaky smile I wore. For teachers, for parents, for everyone who cared. Sometimes I remember the kid I was before I tasted the end of the world in a cheap flask. Before the hangovers became normal as sunrise. It wasn’t always bad- not at first. Just fun. Then risky. Then too often. It wasn’t always ugly— not at first. Just dizzy. Then desperate. Then gone.